


The Art of a Body

by Hallianna



Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM Scene, Blindfolds, Bossy Jaskier | Dandelion, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, M/M, Prompt Art, Restraints, Smut, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, artist!Jaskier, jaskier origins au, jaskier origins beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29002968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: “I’ve a business proposal for you, Witcher.” The man was still grinning, still holding those herbs thrust out at him like a droopy sword. “But here. Velta’s a grouch but she likes me. I can point you to someone better who sells herbs and won’t cheat you. For the future.”Geralt stared at the man. “Is it a contract?”Now something sly flickered over the man’s face. “Of a sort. More like a mutually beneficial business deal.”“Sounds like bullshit. You’ll give me a job and then cheat me out of pay. Happens all the time.” He brushed past, clucking at Roach to follow.Now the fellow scoffed. “Hardly! I am a very well-known and highly sought after artist, I’ll have you know. And you, my fine Witcher, should be my next subject.”Another Jaskier Origins AU, featuring Artist/Painter!Jaskier; inspired by the side quest “The Portrait of the Witcher as an Old Man” in the Witcher 3: Blood and Wine
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069358
Comments: 91
Kudos: 280





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aw shit another one! I love this goofy quest in the Blood and Wine DLC in Witcher 3 and got it in the back of my mind to write something inspired by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with art by me!

The market bustled around him but Jaskier only had eyes for the stunning blond man across the way. The silk seller had been positioned directly across from his little apartment balcony for over a month and try as he might to resist, every time the sun hit that mane of hair just right….

Well, he had to draw him. Jaskier’s fingers itched to put pencil to paper and now, he’d given in. He spent the sunny summer morning basking in the warmth of a pot of tea and the enjoyment of lazily sketching the interesting faces he saw but the silk seller was a temptation he could no longer ignore.

He sighed, setting down his empty tea cup and watched the seller show off a bolt of rather ugly damask to a woman who looked _delighted_ by the strange taupe color the fabric was dyed. Jaskier shuddered. Hideous. But who was he to judge? Strange tastes of all sorts made up the world, and he certainly had his….proclivities.

Jaskier looked over his shoulder to where the restrains hung loose over the edges of his bed and grinned. It _had_ been a while.

Drawing his attention back to the silk seller and that luscious mane of golden hair, he caught the man’s profile and began working on the nose and chin. It was a good nose, with a strong line and a slight upturn at the tip. The chin was a bit weak, but he could strengthen it, add a little dimple. Artist’s license and all that.

His day was looking rather calm for once - a bit more sketching, perhaps more tea, and then the finishing touches on his latest commission. A grand painting of a wall.

Some filthy rich bugger had paid him an exorbitant amount - enough for a year’s rent - to paint a crumbling brick wall. No judgment again, especially when the money was good and the work had been oddly challenging. But with the bills paid, he longed to paint something more interesting.

Decadent even.

Jaskier sighed and tapped his fingers on the tiny table in front of him. Maybe he should get into human models again. Artfully draped cloth, the lovely muscles of a beautiful man or the soft curves of a delicate woman on display….

Something flickered in his vision, a flash of midnight black amongst the swirl of jewel tones and pastel silks. And speaking of silks, that man was long forgotten as Jaskier leaned forward, eyes wide.

The man on the chestnut mare that had just rode into the market was _divine_. Not even divine, that felt like the most inadequate word for such stunning beauty, such grace….

The man swung out of his saddle with ease and walked to the first herbalist on the outer edges. The mare followed diligently, but the man. Oh, what beauty. Skin as pale as the moon, bright white hair, and the amber eyes of a cat. A roguish scar slashed across the jaw, another one perilously close to one of those bright eyes. 

_A Witcher_.

Jaskier dug his fingers into the table for a moment longer, then, mind made up, raced downstairs to find that man and beg him to pose for what would be the talk of every party in Touissant for _years_.

* * *

“That’s too much.”

The woman shrugged and pulled the bundle of herbs back to her across the table. “That’s the price, Witcher.”

“Hmm.” Geralt crossed his arms and frowned, flashing those eyes he knew frightened people. He wasn’t actually trying to intimidate the woman, but she was asking a deeply unfair price for some herbs he needed. “You negotiate?”

The herbs disappeared under her counter and she shook her head. “Not with you.”

_Fuck._

He needed that coin to stable Roach and secure a bed for the night. Grumbling, he shot the woman a dirty look and stomped off, Roach following behind.

There was a scuffle of hurried footfalls on stone and Geralt’s senses sharpened. He reached for his sword, readying should a guard or some brigand come at him. Foolish no matter the time of day, but stranger things had happened over the course of his long life.

“Whatever it is, I’ll pay.”

The voice was frantic, excited. As was the beat of the man’s heart. Geralt caught a whiff of tea leaves laced with honey and cinnamon before he whirled to see what in the hell was going on.

A flurry of movement skidded to a stop and Geralt got a good look at a flustered human man in his late twenties or early thirties (he knew fuck all about human ages). His dark brown hair was wild and windblown, cheeks pink from exertion, and he was breathing hard but smiling brightly….

At Geralt.

Oh no. Geralt knew that look. The unfettered hero-worship, the masking of fear by fascination. The few times it had happened in the past, Geralt had removed himself from the situation and the person’s company as quickly as possible. Nothing good could come of a human inserting themselves into Witcher business, especially if they thought they’d get to tag along on an “adventure”.

(And the one time it had been something different entirely, but Geralt had also extricated himself rather quickly from a room set up with a shrine to Witchers and one man who wanted to “roleplay” being slain. Geralt’s brain had stopped processing what was right before him and, in his haste to get the hell out, had leapt out the window.)

While Geralt was walking away, the man hurriedly exchanged gold for the herbs he’d been trying to purchase and fell in step with he and Roach. 

“No.”

That brought the man up short. “What?”

Geralt gave him a withering glare. “Whatever it is, no.”

The man dashed ahead and stood in Geralt’s path, the bundles of herbs thrust out before him. “Here.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek. He really did need those herbs. “What do you want?”

There was that grin again, sunny and sparkling and _attractive_ . In a different moment, across a crowded tavern or a quiet garden, Geralt might have let his stare linger on the rounded jaw and bright blue eyes. Even if the man was wearing ridiculous clothes with far too much embroidery and too many buttons, they were cut well, tailored to a lithe frame. Strangely they were of a height, which Geralt rarely had the experience of considering most humans were shorter _and_ smaller than him.

“I’ve a business proposal for you, Witcher.” The man was still grinning, still holding those herbs thrust out at him like a droopy sword. “But here. Velta’s a grouch but she likes me. I can point you to someone better who sells herbs and won’t cheat you. For the future.”

Geralt stared at the man. “Is it a contract?”

Something sly flickered over the man’s face. “Of a sort. More like a mutually beneficial business deal.”

“Sounds like bullshit. You’ll give me a job and then cheat me out of pay. Happens all the time.” He brushed past, clucking at Roach to follow.

Now the fellow scoffed. “Hardly! I am a very well-known and highly sought after artist, I’ll have you know. And you, my fine Witcher, should be my next subject.”

Of all the absurd, wild things Geralt had heard in his time, that one was new. He was so confused he came to a stop in the middle of the crowded street, barely noticing how the citizens scattered to avoid the tall, hulking Witcher in their path.

“Thought that might get your attention,” the man said cheekily. “My name is Jaskier, and I am willing to pay _very_ well to have you as my next muse.”

“I don’t do muse,” Geralt bit out, suddenly uncomfortable. A fragment of his mind recalled that strange, surreal fever dream of a room with an altar to Witchers that had a dummy in it dressed up like him, down to a wig of white hair and the scar on his jaw.

“Subject then. Artistic subject!” Now the man - Jaskier - was hopping foot to foot in excitement. “Call it a contract if that makes you feel better, but you’ll be paid. Up front.”

Geralt bit back a growl of frustration. He’d rather fight drowners or hags than waste time, but his purse was lighter and lighter with each passing day and Roach desperately needed new shoes.

_Shit._

He snatched the herbs from the man’s hand. “Where?”

There was that hint of a sly grin again. It wormed into Geralt’s gut and he had to admit, albeit fleetingly, that Jaskier had a nice smile. “My studio is just around the corner.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dumped some feelings in here. I also clearly have a type because beating up on Geralt, then letting Jaskier fix it, is a thing I keep writing.

Geralt could count on one hand and have a thumb leftover the number of truly stupid things he’d done over the course of nearly eight decades. Stupid meant a mistake was made, and mistakes were a death knell for Witchers. That, or age. Or age-related mistakes.

Mistakes were never good. It got you a bloody, painful end and a pyre. Lambert liked to say if you didn’t wind up dead, it wasn’t truly a mistake. And it had some logic to it - but that was Lambert. One part logic, three parts bluster, and another dozen or so parts brazen foolheadedness.

It would have been Lambert to take up the artist’s plea and follow him - blindly - around a few corners to an increasingly isolated, residential area. One of the greatest secrets about a Witcher was that the jingle of coin, not the contract, acted as bait and lure.

Or, that’s what Vesemir would probably say over his pyre before telling the others how Geralt, the famed White Wolf, walked into a trap and had his head torn from his body.

Geralt honed his senses, looking for the obvious and not so obvious signs of a trap - metal on stone, too many heartbeats crowded into a small area, or the scent of poison on the wind.

Nothing out of the ordinary. The summer sun baked the pristine white stones of the courtyard walls, lifting an aroma of honeysuckle and jasmine into the air. As the breeze hit him, Geralt could smell the snap of new canvas on a stiff wooden frame and the acrid curl of paint thinner. 

“Here we are,” Jaskier said as they rounded a final corner and he took out a small iron key from his pocket. “Now, a few ground rules, sir Witcher. I don’t just let anyone into my studio so I’d appreciate a little discretion from you about what you find inside.” He pressed a fine-boned hand to his chest with dramatic flair. “An artist’s studio is their sanctum sanctorum, after all.”

Geralt silently raised an eyebrow.

“No snatching off any drop cloths. No touching anything on the walls. No playing with my tools.” A long moment stretched between them before Jaskier gave him a toothy grin. “And under no circumstances should you feel obligated to leave all that armor on.”

That oh so expressive eyebrow arched higher.

Jaskier flushed, realizing how his words sounded and strangely didn’t feel an ounce of regret. “Right, ahem well….shall we?”

“Hold on.” He put a heavy, gloved hand down on the other man’s shoulder. “We’ve not discussed the details. Witchers don’t do jobs blind.” _Because it gets us dead. And I have the advantage right now._

To his dismay - perhaps confusion - Jaskier kept grinning, rocking back on his heels as he carefully eyed Geralt over. It was a scrape, that gaze, picking up finer details and setting them aside. Sifting through blood and bone and mud and pain and seeing the else, the other that lay beneath. Most people saw the parts that made a Witcher, and more often than not fueled their opinion by yarns spun through hundreds of tellings and lies. They saw the swords and the eyes run black from toxicity and the strength and to them, it added up to a monster. A thing barely better than the reason Witchers existed.

Geralt was used to such dismissal, such callous, off-handed cruelty. He’d learned to shrug it off at a tender age and not let it deter him from The Path.

And yet….every now and then, he stumbled across a human who saw him as more. He learned to cherish those people, but his duty kept them at arm’s length.

Staring at the man staring at him, he wondered what would happen if Jaskier proved to be one of those rare breeds. Some part of him wouldn’t have been completely surprised. Artists tended to see truth and then couch it in paints or oils or stone, or poetry or song; all to make it acceptable for wider society. They tended to hunt for truth and spin it to their own reality.

The way Jaskier was looking at him felt like all that. It felt personal. Intimate. Geralt felt it like breath stirring his hair, or the rasp of fingertips on the back of his neck. He felt it like a hand on the small of his back, pushing, pressing, seeking.

A bag of gold flew at him and he caught it on reflex, still stuck in his thoughts and realizing he’d just made a mistake. Jaskier, if he’d been a brigand, might have caught him unawares in that moment and that might have been his end. And instead, Fate decided to spare him such humiliation.

“One hundred crowns up front. Another hundred per painting you pose for.” Jaskier’s expression was too knowing, too sharp. “And if you let me paint all three I’m hoping for, it’s a bonus of another two hundred crowns.”

It was a lot of money. That much could keep Geralt on The Path for two solid years without needing to retreat to Kaer Morhen. Not that he’d skip a winter if he could help it, but it was easier to separate time in such a way, as Kaer Morhen was the only true place for he and his brothers to rest. 

Geralt weighed the bag in his palm and eyed the man closely. “And if I walk away now?”

Jaskier shrugged. “It’ll break my poor heart, but the money up front is yours no matter what.”

He had to admit, the intrigue was there. Jaskier had a mischievous air of mystery about him, something tucked away and secret behind sky blue eyes. Geralt was tired and worn from the road, an ache in his shoulder wearing him down. This money could buy him a room with a proper bath. That was certainly the impetus for his next words. Nothing to do with a handsome, smiling artist who clearly saw something in the scary Witcher before him. “Show me.”

* * *

Jaskier was beside himself with delight. A Witcher, in his studio! His most precious space. There was a moment - several, to be honest - that he thought the man would up and walk away. Take the coin and go. Not that he would have blamed Geralt.

 _Definitely_ Geralt of Rivia. No question. If you asked one hundred people what a Witcher looked like, the majority of them would tell you about the cat eyes and hulking muscles and scars. And a few of them - maybe a handful, maybe half - would talk about the White Wolf.

If this went even partially right, Jaskier will have made the White Wolf into his white whale and they could both retire fat and happy on the royalties alone. Or whatever Witchers did when they weren’t killing slavering beasts.

As he flung open the door to the little studio, Jaskier was hit with a wave of pride. This was _his_. No family money or influence wanted or required. Just his skill, his creativity, his passion fueling his dream and after years of toil, this was his.

The afternoon light hit this space just right and Jaskier grinned at the scattered canvases left drying in the summer breeze. A few pedestals were covered in cloths, masking their holdings. Jaskier was only now experimenting with clay and stone and those misshapen creations were in no state to be seen. But his tools lay neatly in rows on a slightly beaten but still lustrous mahogany dresser; the horsehair brushes drying, the paint-speckled pots drying from his cleaning session last night. Jaskier circled the worktable where he made his custom colors, letting his fingers drag over the slightly dusty surface. 

_Give the man room, Jaskier. Let him think. Let him wonder._

The air was heady with the scent of wine and the ocean and the curling petals of red jasmine and he took a deep breath before turning back to Geralt. “Would you like to see some of my work? So you can judge if my skill would be up to capturing your…” He breathed in again. “Essence.”

That drew a snort from Geralt. “Pretty sure that’s two weeks of road dirt and horse.”

Jaskier’s nose crinkled. “And onion.”

Geralt didn’t reply but edged closer to the canvas nearest his right. It was flipped around, kept hidden from even his eyes when the memories were to heavy to stare at one more time. With no further flair except a little bow, Jaskier picked up the canvas in both hands and turned it so Geralt could see.

Geralt was no judge of art. Or music. Or any creative work really. Whatever the Witcher mutations had done to mute his senses so emotions were more easily buried had also cut him off from appreciation of the finer things in life. He could enjoy the feel of velvet on his skin, for example, without being able to describe or even want it unless it was already there for the taking. People like Jaskier wanted - deeply, fervently, passionately. Geralt used to be jealous of such strong emotions, until he realized what a burden and a danger they were.

Staring at this painting didn’t make him feel anything in particular. But as his eyes swept over the barely clothed form of an older man, his body on display for Geralt’s stare, the Witcher saw the details. The fine wrinkles around the man’s cheery brown eyes and the laugh lines carved around his mouth. The way the light played with the drape of pine green cloth that lay casually, almost carelessly, over his lap. The fine veins that bulged under the skin on the hand resting on his breast.

But his face was what stopped Geralt cold. He couldn’t tell another what technique was used or why the lighting was so perfect, but the expression Jaskier had captured was breathtakingly serene. As if every worry, every care, every bit of misfortune or pain in that man’s life had been wiped away and all that was left was _peace_.

It pulled on Geralt _hard_ , and he found himself stumbling forward. Closer. He wanted to know the man’s secrets. 

What had caused the expression? Was it a memory? A person? Simple instruction from the artist Geralt could feel at his elbow?

He reached out with a tentative hand, not touching. He wanted to, but knew it was wrong. “His name is Andreas,” Jaskier said softly, breaking the spell. “He’s a worker in the D’zaner vineyards. I was riding near there last autumn and he caught my eye. Something about the way he moved, the fluid grace of it, drew me to him. We talked and struck up a friendship, and he offered to sit for me.”

Geralt swallowed hard, eyes never leaving the painting. “What about the painting?”

“A gift for his widow.”

 _Oh_. Blinking quickly, Geralt turned his head until Jaskier was in his eyeline. “I’m sorry.”

The smile Jaskier gave him was brief, but blissful. “I’m not. Not really. Had I never gone out there, had Andreas and I never met, this wouldn’t exist.” He ran a finger down the edge of the canvas. “I learn something from every subject, every painting.”

It clawed at him, that expression on the man painted with such care and dignity. Geralt’s mouth worked for a moment before he could speak. “What did you learn from him?”

“That every life is one well lived, if you care enough to stop and see it.” Now Jaskier’s smile turned a little sad. “It wasn’t until I saw you today that I’d been drawn to another person in such a way. I’m itching to work with people again, but they have to be the right ones.”

“I’ll do it.”

Jaskier didn’t hesitate. He clapped his hands in glee and then held one out to seal the deal. Geralt took it carefully as Jaskier said, “I’m so, so glad.”

* * *

Jaskier puttered about in his little apartment kitchen, opening wine and reheating the simple soup he’d made the night before. He wasn’t sure how much a Witcher ate, but he counted himself fortunate he’d stocked the larder recently.

Heavy footfalls came down the short hallway and then there was Geralt, still armed and armored. “Oh, now that won’t do!” Jaskier waved a hand at him. “I said make yourself at home. Do you always wear armor at home?”

Geralt’s thoughts flitted to Kaer Morhen and cold nights spent with too much wine and too much laughter. It was an ache buried deep in his chest, bone deep enough to make him miss it and hate it at the same time. “No.”

“Shoo. Off. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Geralt shifted, his armor creaking with the movement. “You’ve paid me more than enough. I can get a room -”

“Geralt. You’re staying with me. That’s what a guest room is for. And Roach is in good hands, getting pampered, new shoes, the like.”

The Witcher grumbled for a long moment but finally said, “Fine.”

Jaskier grinned. “I told you, the sessions are intense. It’s easier to be comfortable and have a bed to retreat to for rest.” He looked down and Geralt saw the tips of his ear turn pink; an odd reaction when talking about painting. “It’s intimate, this thing. It’s a shared moment, stretched in time between the subject and the artist. I want to make it as good for you as it is for me.”

Jaskier’s tone had gone breathy but his eyes were bright as he gazed at Geralt appreciatively. Geralt wasn’t sure what else lay behind that tone, that look, but it sent a bolt of heat to his groin. “Right, I’ll….go change.”

It was only after Geralt had retreated down the hall once more that, like a brick to the head, Jaskier remembered the drawer of black leather and velvet in the guest room. He dropped the spoon in the pot and raced down the hallway, an excuse already on his lips as he slipped into the room.

Geralt was standing before that very drawer, staring down at the cuffs and blindfolds and satin ropes with a blank expression. When he finally looked at Jaskier, all he said was, “Before….were you talking about painting or pleasure?”

Jaskier bit his bottom lip and watched those amber eyes track the red indent his teeth left behind. “Both, if you must know.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this went from 4 chapters to 6 because I can't stop myself. Also....Geralt's in trouble hahahaha.

Geralt knew what Jaskier was inferring. Hells, he knew what he was looking at laid out so reverently in the drawer he’d pulled out to use for his few spare pieces of clothing. A drawer had felt so luxurious - a chance to air out his things and hopefully not make Jaskier’s apartment smell too much like damp horse and dust.

But the drawer, to his surprise, was occupied. At first he wasn’t sure what the items were but a closer inspection garnered details. The whisper of velvet on his fingertip. The scent of well-oiled leather, barely broken in. The particular cold sting of steel; something Geralt always hated. He withdrew from the bowl of clamps and cuffs quickly, shaking his hand out like he’d been burned.

In theory he knew how it all worked and truth be told, there were only so many places on a human body to put things. But as he stared, his mind seized up. Only the barest trace of pleasure lingered on any of the items; impressive considering how sensitive his nose was.

Did the other man prefer being the one to tie? Or was he the type to lie prone, submissive, at another’s mercy? Geralt couldn’t honestly say. Both made a certain kind of sense. And the footsteps running down the hall told him the man had likely panicked, remembering the items and worried Geralt would find them.

He bit off a smile as Jaskier appeared in the doorway. “Before….were you talking about painting or pleasure?”

The man fussed for a moment, shifting his weight and looking mildly abashed before biting his bottom lip. Weighing his words. “Both, if you must know.”

The sudden need to bite that same lip surged through Geralt. His hands clenched on the drawer. Better than launching himself at Jaskier. But his curiosity was stoked. “Not going to ask me to model this stuff, right?”

The man’s genuinely delighted laugh set him off-kilter. “Oh no. Not my kind of art. I prefer those to be used during private moments between two consenting adults.”

Jaskier was then at his elbow and there were gentle fingers on his wrist. “Apologies for forgetting where I’d left them.” He slid his hand under Geralt’s forearm and lifted the entire drawer out, forcing Geralt to withdraw his hands. “I’ll bring this back empty, promise.” Jaskier sauntered off like nothing had happened, calling out over his shoulder, “Dinner’s almost ready, by the way!”

Geralt didn’t stop him, even though he wanted to.

* * *

The evening was entirely too pleasant by half. Every window in the apartment was open to a cool summer night, the soft droning of cicadas and bullfrogs almost as relaxing as the violin music from across the street. The park hosted local musicians every night until the mage lights faded and the wine was drained.

Jaskier and the Witcher were seated on his little balcony, sharing a third bottle of wine and watching the stars wink slowly overhead. This was the first Jaskier had seen Geralt relaxed, and it all but dashed away their slightly awkward conversation from earlier. He wasn’t one to shy away from his own proclivities but talk of restraints and clamps wasn’t for most company.

And yet Geralt hadn’t pulled away.

There were entire clubs, well-hidden and versed in secrecy, that catered to those of his inclinations. He’d been to a few, but they were either so practiced that it took some of the raw passion out of the act, or too loose with the rules. It was a delicate balance, trusting someone to give themselves to you. To submit. To wait on their knees and know they would be treated how they wished  _ and _ have their needs met.

It was no fumbling hands in the dark, fingers questing and seeking beneath hems and hurriedly undoing buttons. It wasn’t the hard, fast fucking on a table, unbridled lust claiming. It was a dance. A contract. A willingness to give fully.

Jaskier loved every bit of it, but it wasn’t for all.

As he stared at the Witcher’s profile in the dark, he wondered if Geralt would be willing to submit. Could he take that powerful body and give it, completely, over to another? Sometimes the ones who needed it the most were the strongest.

“It really is quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

Jaskier’s voice was velvet in the dark and it made Geralt’s neck hot. Something about that tone, the level and cadence of it, made his gut tighten. “What is?”

Jaskier turned to him, a slight smile on his face. “The dark. The summer breeze stirring our hair. Even the slight tipsiness from the wine.”  _ Gods, what was he doing? Was he really flirting with the Witcher? _

_ He was. He had to know. He had to touch. _

But instead of doing what he truly wanted - jumping into Geralt’s lap and pushing his head back until the bigger man relented - he simply leaned forward and stared hard at that outline against the inky black sky, his fingers steepled under his chin. “And you’ll have to forgive the cheesy line but despite the beautiful night, I’m a bit distracted by the stunning man beside me.”

To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt snorted before draining his cup. “You’re drunk, painter. Go to bed.”

Jaskier schooled the grin off his face but not without exceptional effort. “There’s a big difference between tipsy and drunk. I’m the former, not the latter. Definitely sober enough to know beauty when I see it.”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t believe me?” He put an affronted hand to his chest. “Care to make a wager on that?”

Geralt seemed to consider it, turning in his chair to face Jaskier while pouring more wine for them both. The bottle empty, he set it aside before replying. “I didn’t take all your coin on hand?”

“Oh pish, not at all. You just took the advance I made off my last commission.”

Guilt roiled in Geralt. “You really shouldn’t fling gold around like that.”

“What else am I going to spend it on?” He leaned in more, watching Geralt still as the distance between them closed infinitesimally. “Company? You may be surprised by this, but there are few who seek pleasure the way I do.”

Geralt shrugged. “Thought we were talking about money.” He smirked. “One of a few things you’re not supposed to talk about in polite company.”

Jaskier’s laugh was loud. “I never claimed to be such. So about that wager?”

Geralt tapped his thumb on his knee for a few moments. He was curious what the painter had in mind. He also knew that, given any chance to be closer to such a bright soul - someone more than capable of driving off the dark that always seemed to surround Geralt- he’d take it. “Fine,” he grunted, trying to sound uninterested. “Not sure how you’re gonna prove something as ephemeral as beauty.”

The self-satisfied smile on Jaskier’s face told him he’d failed.

Jaskier slipped from chair and came to stand before Geralt, sliding easily in between Geralt’s spread thighs. Not touching, but close enough for Geralt to feel the other man’s body heat and smell the wine on his lips. “You can show beauty in many ways,” he said softly, gaze locked on Geralt’s face. “With art, of course. Now I could bet that you’ll approve of each of my paintings of you, but that would just be an excuse for you to grunt at me and take my money.”

Geralt had to admit he wasn’t wrong there.

“You can show beauty with flowery words, like I’m doing now. But I’m betting you’re not one to fall for such things.” Geralt inclined his head, which Jaskier took as a sign he was right as much as it was to continue. “But a being of such power, such strength like yourself? I can show you beauty with a touch. You can fake interest in such things, but do I strike you as the kind of man to do that?”

The suggestion in Jaskier’s voice warmed Geralt’s blood. But what he was saying was nonsense.  _ Right? _ Geralt gave Jaskier a hard look. “Many people fake that kind of thing. What would make you different?”

“Truthfully? Not a thing. But I do know something about trust. And I’m asking you to have a little in me, right now. And it’ll be up to you to decide if I won the wager or not.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll even let you sleep on it.”

“Just a touch?” This warred against Geralt’s instincts for self-preservation, but he was intrigued. The light in Jaskier’s eyes was open, vulnerable. He couldn’t put a finger on the exact word for the expression on the other man’s face, but it sparked something in him.

_ You want to know _ .

“How specific do you want me to be?”

“Depends on what you’re going to do.”

“Where is your worst scar?”

Geralt blinked. “What?”

Jaskier nudged the Witcher’s boot with his own. “I’m guessing on your back or chest, yeah? If something scars badly, that means the armor was dented or torn, and you couldn’t get it stitched up adequately.”

The painter wasn’t wrong. Not even close to wrong. “Left shoulder blade,” Geralt admitted. “Wyvern claw.”

“Probably poison, too.”

“Yeah.”

Jaskier leaned down and put his palms on the arms of Geralt’s chair. “Show me?”

* * *

By the time Geralt stripped down to his pants and boots, Jaskier was tingling with anticipation. He kept his distance, patiently waiting Geralt out and doing his best not to stare as more and more skin was revealed. Once Geralt dropped his shirt over a chair, he turned to let Jaskier see the scar in question.

It  _ was _ bad. A mess of jagged skin and knotted scar tissue, spanning Geralt’s shoulder blade diagonally. Jaskier could see where the claw started the tear, near Geralt’s neck; and where it ended near his ribs. The inner edges of the scar, where the tearing would have been the worst, were slightly discolored from the poison that had sunk into the Witcher’s body.

Jaskier saw the scar and could imagine the wound, fresh and bleeding and incredibly painful. But what he knew was the strength it would have taken to come back from such a thing alive. It was beyond remarkable.

It was breathtaking.

Geralt glanced over his shoulder. “Told you it wasn’t pretty.”

“And yet….” Jaskier approached Geralt slowly, hands loose at his sides. “I see beauty in it.”

Geralt grunted. “You’re addled.”

“I’m not.” He was close now, standing behind Geralt, inches separating them. He was careful to not let his clothing brush against the Witcher’s bare back. “Can we finish the bet?”

“Sure.” Those mountainous shoulders shrugged. “If you think you touching the scar’s going to prove anything -”

Jaskier leaned in and ran his index finger down Geralt’s spine.

To his credit, Geralt only sucked in a deep breath. He didn’t make a noise of surprise or discontent. He didn’t buck away from Jaskier’s touch. He took what was offered and  _ trusted _ .

Jaskier made a pleased noise at the feel of Geralt’s skin under his fingertip. “I made a guess that your worst scar would be in a sensitive place. Somewhere you keep protected, because of its vulnerabilities.” He let his finger drag lower, wanting to touch more but knowing the trust between them could snap at any moment. “Thank you for showing me. Thank you for letting me touch you.” The next words were spoken near Geralt’s ear, and Jaskier felt the tremor go through him. “Art is about vulnerability and belief. There is a particular beauty in our most fragile parts. You opened yourself up to my eyes, my touch. You made  _ yourself _ vulnerable. Win or lose, I hope you know you can trust me.”

Jaskier pulled away just as his finger brushed the top of Geralt’s tailbone. “Good night, Witcher.”

After Jaskier’s footsteps faded and his bedroom door clicked shut, Geralt stood rooted in that spot before the fireplace. He wasn’t going to get a lot of sleep tonight.

When Jaskier awoke in the morning, he found an armored Witcher seated on the balcony and a stack of gold on the fireplace mantle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bath scene was supposed to be a page, maybe two. And instead, now you get an entire chapter of it!
> 
> Which means I also added to the chapter count. I swear next chapter Jaskier will actually paint Geralt. I needed another excuse for Jaskier to be good to Geralt without getting too horny. Please forgive me my indulgences.

Jaskier left the money on the mantle but stuck his head around the balcony door. “Did you just...put your armor back on? Like that?”

Geralt curled his lip at the affronted tone in Jaskier’s voice. “I thought we were doing the first painting with me in my armor.”

“Yes, but…” Jaskier sighed, sounding more exasperated than he felt. Did the man truly not know how to take care of himself? “May I?”

Geralt watched him approach, unmoving but not wary. After...whatever that was last night, he was pretty sure Jaskier didn’t mean any harm. The night and wine had brought little sleep. 

And that touch. 

That single fingertip down his spine.

Geralt swore he could feel it still. A brand burned into his flesh.

Suppressing a shiver, he waited as Jaskier kneeled at his side and brushed his fingertips through the ends of Geralt’s hair, where it lay against his shoulder. “All this lovely hair and it’s ragged. Let me trim it.”

He frowned. “I thought you wanted me ‘authentic’.” He punctuated that word with a pointed look, trying not to focus on the slight touch. 

“Authentic, yes. That’s what the armor and big sword and stubble are for.” Jaskier grinned. “Big, strong, handsome Witcher. But I refuse to paint someone with such split ends.”

“So don’t paint them. Paint me bald for all I care.”

Jaskier gasped as if pained. “Absolutely fucking _not_.” 

Geralt shrugged, trying not to care at how _close_ the other man was, breath hot on his cheek. But it was gone too quickly as Jaskier stood. “Come on, then. I’ve a tub in my room. It takes a bit to heat the water to fill it -“

“I can help.”

Jaskier gave him an inquisitive look. “I’ve only the one bucket, I’m afraid.”

“If you fill the tub, I can heat it.” Geralt rolled his shoulders, his body already screaming for the release offered by a hot bath. 

“All right, keep your secrets,” Jaskier said with a sly smile. “It’ll be the work of...well, several moments, I’m afraid.” Those fingers brushed his hair again and Geralt felt his neck grow hot. “But you must let me trim this.”

“You’re a barber as well? Quite the man of many talents.”

Jaskier’s face fell and Geralt instantly regretted his words. “I suppose it’s a secret of mine. Maybe I’ll divulge later, good sir Witcher. If you get me drunk enough.”

And there was the rogue once more. Charming and dashing and already with a bit of paint smudged on the ends of his fingers. Or maybe it had been there last night and Geralt had been too distracted to notice. But the way Jaskier moved seamlessly from one mood to the other, within a sentence’s striking distance, was impressive and a tad alarming. Alarming only because Geralt understood the pains one had to take to conceal emotion.

It made him even more curious about the man he was embroiled with. Last night had shown one side, today another. He wondered how many versions of Jaskier he’d meet before their time together was done.

* * *

Jaskier dumped the last bucket of water in the tub and stood admiring his work. Granted, it wasn’t particularly difficult work; certainly not when a big, strong Witcher had assisted. But Geralt had assured him the water was fine.

“Geralt, it’s lukewarm at best.” Jaskier put his hands on his hips and turned to the Witcher. “I wish you’d -“

Geralt made a quick motion with his fingers and there was a gurgle from the tub. Which was now boiling. “Wha - how?”

Geralt flexed his fingers. “Witcher shit.”

The way Jaskier looked to Geralt, then to the tub, then back to Geralt would have been rather funny had the artist not grinned like a loon at him. “Oh, that’s useful. I imagine it does more than boil water, right?”

The sheer _delight_ on Jaskier’s face was hard to ignore. Sighing inwardly, Geralt flicked **_Igni_ ** at the cold fireplace. Flames jumped over the logs and roared to life, drawing a gasp from the other man. “Good for other things,” Geralt said, feeling self-conscious at how Jaskier stared at him with mouth agape.

“You know, I was going to make the second painting a profile of you facing away, staring at a cold fireplace but now….now I need something else.” Jaskier brushed his hair out of his eyes, still grinning. “I have so many ideas. I’ll settle on one or three, but you should bathe. And then we’re fixing that ragged mess you call hair.”

The tub beckoned, and Geralt was never one to turn down such a luxury. As Jaskier rambled about lighting and color schemes, Geralt began to unbuckle his armor, half listening to the prattle. Jaskier was busy pulling more blank canvases out of a closet and by the time Geralt was naked and stepping into the tub, Jaskier had worked himself into a lather over his twentieth iteration of the second and third painting.

“So I’m thinking if we get you and your horse up on a hill in midafternoon, the lighting will be just right -“ Jaskier froze as Geralt slid down into the water. The Witcher was stunning. There was no way around it. All hard muscle and scarred skin and hairy chest and utter lack of self consciousness. The surprised yelp Jaskier let out only made Geralt stare at him in confusion. “Ye gods, man, you could have waited until I was out of the room! Or just told me to leave!” His face was _burning_ and he threw a hand up over his eyes.

Geralt chuckled. “Didn’t think an artist to be so precious about a little nudity.”

“Yes well, I just….hmmm.” Jaskier usually had a quick tongue but every clever quip died before it could be spoken. He was going to see that body imprinted on the inside of his eyelids for eternity. Every time he closed his eyes from hereon out, he’d see that beautiful form and ache with want. The fire erupting inside of him yearned.

Water sloshed as Geralt shifted, letting his tense muscles go lax in the heat. “You might as well get your scissors, since you’re so hellbent on my hair.”

Jaskier peeked out from between his fingers. “I can wait until you’re done.”

Geralt scoffed. And then Jaskier watched him dunk his head under the water and rise. 

Slowly.

Dripping. 

_Gorgeous_.

He bit his lip, feeling the sting of his own teeth. He needed it to ground what little of his control was left. Especially when Geralt rolled an amber eye his way and motioned to his hair, now sticking to his neck and shoulders.

Jaskier nodded and mutely walked over to his dresser, where a box inlaid with rosewood filigree sat. The tools were better than the ones he first owned - when his hair had grown too long and he couldn’t stand how it flopped down in his eyes. It was right after he’d left home with naught but his horse, a few pieces of clothing, and a bag full of rations and what coins he could nick from his father’s desk before fleeing.

_You’re no son of mine. Begone, you utter disappointment._

Jaskier might not take orders well, but at that moment, while he father raged and threw a vase that nearly missed his head, he left. Gone from his family home a decade now. 

Toussaint had been good to him. He had a home, and a career that let him amble about as he pleased, creating works that drew the eyes and interest of others.

When he’d first bought the studio, one of the last things he’d unpacked was that same box. The scissors and straight razor were dull, almost rusty. Some part of him wanted to hurl them to the ground or snap those treacherous blades - and the memories attached to them. But he didn’t. He’d rode out to the lake and on his way, met Andreas.

The next day, he bought better tools. He still preferred to cut his own hair, shave his own face, but now he did it with sharp blades, their handles gorgeous little things that felt good in the hand. And it was those tools he pulled from their nest of velvet and brought to the Witcher’s side. Geralt watched him closely but those muscled shoulders never twitched. The callused hands never tightened on the tub edge.

The Witcher sat patiently waiting for Jaskier.

Jaskier pulled a stool over and sat behind Geralt, heart in his throat and praying his voice didn’t sound tight as he asked, “Do you want me to make it shorter?”

There was a pause, and then, “Do what you think looks best. I’ll trust your eye for such things.”

 _Melitele’s supple arse_. Jaskier bit back a curse and was keenly glad Geralt couldn’t see his flushed face. “I’ll take the ends off and then you tell me,” he said, voice thick.

Jaskier tried to make the motions feel as perfunctory as possible. But it was an intimate thing, despite what he desperately willed himself to think. Focusing on the mechanics of cutting hair made it easier, but not by much.

He still had to touch the other man, and his hair, now soaked and sticking to his scalp, meant running his fingers through the strands over and over. _To make sure I don’t cut it crooked_ , he told himself.

Geralt was so still under his ministrations Jaskier might have thought him a statue. It made sense - the man looked like he was cut from marble and the temptation of the square jawline was too much.

He made the excuse that there was a bit of white hair stuck to his neck, and it, like all the rest, needed trimming. From the way Geralt sat so still, Jaskier figured his touch didn’t register. After all, it was only a brush of fingertips over the hinge of that square jaw as he pulled the wet strands back.

And then Geralt sighed.

Jaskier wet his lips, sucked in a breath, and did it again. “Sorry,” he murmured, letting his touch drift feather-light over the prickle of stubble on that oh so irresistible jaw. 

Something went loose in the Witcher’s spine, the water rippling with his movement. “It’s fine,” he muttered, sounding grouchy but there was something under it. Another sigh, perhaps? Jaskier may have been imagining it; or deeply wishing it was so.

Geralt shifted again, this time waiting until Jaskier was done snipping off a ragged end. As his back touched the tub, he sucked in a breath. Jaskier froze, concern flaring in his gut as he checked the end of his scissors. _Oh gods, did I nick him with the blades?_ “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He shifted once more, clearly uncomfortable.

“Geralt.” Jaskier wanted to touch him, to give comfort. But he didn’t know how. “Are you injured? I didn’t see any bruises -“

The Witcher grunted, and then finally relented. “My right shoulder. Pulled it rolling down a hill when I got jumped by some giant spiders. It’s just sore.”

“Let me help.” Jaskier set the scissors aside and then let his hand hover over Geralt’s skin. “I’ve been told by no more than at least a dozen lovers I’m quite good with my hands.”

Those massive shoulders rolled, sloshing water threateningly to the tub’s edges. “You’ll break your fingers trying to fix it.”

Oddly it didn’t sound like a warning. More like a man trying to talk himself out of something he truly, desperately wanted. “I’ll chance it.” Jaskier couldn’t keep the grin off his face, but he tried. At the first touch Jaskier almost groaned. Geralt’s skin, pink and warm from the bath, was smooth under his fingers; a delightful contrast to the rasp of stubble he’d felt earlier. But it didn’t take much to feel the knot; tight, tense, and begging for attention. Jaskier dared to push on the mass with his thumb, and was rewarded with a small groan. 

Geralt was incredibly sensitive. It was a detail - a very important one - Jaskier filed away for later. Even if it was to spark something in his own fevered imagination in the dark with nothing but his fist for company.

The knot slipped under his thumb and Jaskier cursed. Geralt hummed under his breath but didn’t tell him to stop; much to Jaskier’s delight, of course.

He worked slowly, methodically. Getting that stubborn bit of muscle to release took time and yet Geralt seemed content to let him work, even leaning into his touches a time or two.

When the knot finally gave way, Geralt groaned loudly and hung his head in relief. “You needed that,” Jaskier said softly, brushing his palm over the loose, but still sore, muscle. “Has no one ever done that for you?”

“No.” Such a bitter, broken word from the Witcher’s lips. It curled in Jaskier’s heart, pressing against it like an anvil on glass. 

“Any more spots that need tending to?”

A one shouldered shrug. “Don’t know. That’s just the one that hurts right now.”

 _Save me from stubborn Witchers_. “Geralt -“

“I’m all right.”

Jaskier bit his lip and frowned. “All right. But let me leave you with this. Asking isn’t weakness.” He moved his hand to the back of Geralt’s neck, skating his touch down the knobs of the Witcher’s spine. “I’ll go get set up. If you’re still interested in being painted, that is.”

Geralt was silent for a long, tense moment. “Interested in being paid.”

“I bet.” Jaskier reigned the smile in his voice back a few notches. “Oh and, I only took the ends off your hair so if you need more done, just say so.”

As he turned to leave the room, Jaskier caught sight of Geralt running his fingers through his hair, a tiny smile on that rugged face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all don't mind a bit of a tease, right?

_ The first painting _

Jaskier peered at Geralt around the canvas. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

A dry brush was flourished in the air and then Jaskier said, “Well, let me know when you need a break.” And he got to work.

Honestly, he’d had far, far worse. Geralt was seated on a plain block of wood, fully armed and armored. Jaskier had fussed repeatedly with the backdrops, the placement of Geralt’s perch, the pose he’d strike. But when Geralt sat, sword on lap, and bowed his head, Jaskier had gasped, declared it perfect, and bustled about preparing his paints.

Some part of the entire dance had bothered him. Jaskier bounced around the small, brightly lit studio, not a care in the world. And certainly not like he’d just shared an intimate moment with a naked Witcher in a tub of steaming water. Geralt should have felt guilty for wanting more and yet, he hadn’t asked. Didn’t put his hand on top of Jaskier’s and tell him  _ stay, don’t leave, please keep touching me _ .

He wasn’t going to let Jaskier’s touches unravel him or his words unsteady him. The painter wanted something, Geralt wanted his coin, and so a deal had been struck. Everything else was...misguided, naive kindness on Jaskier’s part.

Every little tear, every tatter was reeled back in and tucked away. Geralt needed to focus, even if this would be an easy one hundred crowns. He could meditate and refocus his mind; given room to pull back together the pieces that had been scattered of late. Geralt blamed the road, the heat, the pissy villagers who wouldn’t pay him. Take all of it, bind it up, and let it be burned away as he drifted. At peace.

The little sounds from Jaskier as he worked - brush over canvas, the drip of paints in their bowls, the rustle of clothing as the artist shifted….all of it broke his concentration. 

Jaskier had said the first painting would be of The Witcher, fully armored. Pensive. Strong. Geralt heard all of that and realized he could spend hours meditating. A rare treat to be sure. Meditating in a remote area always came with a certain level of danger, and meditating at an inn didn’t have the same feel, the same sense of peace, as being alone in the woods.

Here, while Jaskier painted, he could focus and let his body and mind rest. His body was already feeling better, largely in part due to the careful ministrations of the artist now quietly humming to himself from several feet away. 

Geralt closed his eyes. There was comfort to be found in the weight of his armor and the feel of silver under his hand. His steel sword was strapped to his back, a solid presence and a way to return to ground. Even-keeled, precise, logical, cold. If meditating allowed him to strip back down to the basics, he could forget everything but The Path.

Geralt drew in a deep breath, then another. He let his eyes drift shut. Meditating only ever worked if he shut off his senses one at a time. Sight was always the easiest. You had to deal with your other senses overcompensating but he’d learned long ago to let them run a bit before pulling on their reins. Taste wasn’t typically a thing that got in the way, and his hands were on his sword, meaning touch wasn’t an issue. He focused on what he heard and what he smelled.

Various plants and herbs, the concoctions used to create different colors, permeated his nostrils. The earthy spice of turmeric and the antiseptic kick of peppermint. A hint of dark red chili pepper, which grew all over Toussaint on long, reedy plants strung out like grapevines. Tomato leaves, bright and smelling like the sun and good dirt. Summer lilacs and bearded irises for purple, the color of royalty; their scents so lush and full of life Geralt could almost hear the drone of bees in the gardens in which the flowers grew. 

One by one, he closed off those smells, delightful as they were. It was like blocking out the sun after weeks of grey clouds, but it was the only way to achieve the meditative state he craved. A few things lingered, like the ammonia of paint thinner, strong enough to make his nose twitch. He pushed that aside and caught a whiff of bergamot and tobacco and ambergris - dark and delightful. Decadent, even.

Jaskier.

That was the artist’s scent, something he slathered on or bathed in. Or it was in his hair, some kind of pomade, which was all the rage in Toussaint. With regret, he closed that off, too. He’d welcome it back readily soon enough.

The rasp of a paintbrush over dry canvas drew his attention and so he focused, intent on it and Jaskier’s steady breathing. The background sounds of chatter from the street and merchants hawking their wares faded. Geralt drew in those two sounds, brush and breathing, and held them close as he felt his heart slow and his mind still.

It wasn’t darkness nor was it peace. It was simply a state of being. His fingers didn’t twitch, his eyes never opened. He lost any connection to the world around him. But Geralt did allow himself one small, selfish thing.

The last thing he heard before the world dropped away was the thrum of Jaskier’s heart.

* * *

_ Is he….asleep? Oh god. But he’s not falling over. _

_ No, Jaskier, don’t bother him. Whatever it is, he must need it. The man’s exhausted. Has to be. Traveling around the Continent and beyond, just him and his horse. Living off the land, camping under the stars. _

_ Or, at least I hope it’s romantic like that. Though I doubt it. Too many people fear Witchers, or hate them. Disgusting, anyone who would look at someone so brave and true and see nothing but a monster. _

_ Is it the eyes? The swords? That uncanny ability to stay stock still, like he’s currently exhibiting? Superstition and rumor and stupidity. _

_ If this painting can bring him any amount of peace, it’ll be worth it. _

_ Second painting I definitely want something heroic. _

_ Third painting will probably never see the light of day. IF he lets me paint it. And if not, maybe a sketch? Purely for an anatomical study of course. _

_ He’s asleep. Has to be. _

_ Jaskier, focus. Keep painting. Don’t draw this out. You have to stop staring. _

_ I can’t. My gods he’s beautiful. I would love to take him apart with my hands and show him all that tenderness he needs. Hells, he’d be doing me a favor - I so rarely get to dote on anyone.  _

_ Geralt, Geralt, Geralt. You walked into my life and upended everything, didn’t you? _

* * *

When the sun began to slink past its zenith high in a cerulean sky, Jaskier stopped for a break. Geralt hadn’t moved in three hours, and his worry over the Witcher was reaching its own peak.

Jaskier stretched, set his brush down, and came around the easel. He kept his distance, for fear of startling the man, but they both needed to eat, maybe go for a walk in the sun.

“Geralt?” Jaskier kept his voice soft, melodic. “Geralt, can you hear me?”

The Witcher didn’t so much as flex his fingers on his sword. For all intents and purposes, he appeared to be sound asleep. “Geralt, we should take a bit of a break. Get some food, maybe wander the market…”

He stepped closer, heart kicking up a notch. Not fear. Worry.

“Geralt?” Hand outstretched, Jaskier dared to walk closer. Keeping as much distance between them while still able to touch, he brought his hand down on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt’s head snapped up, staggering Jaskier back. And then he was tripping, falling, about to land on his ass - and when he didn’t, Jaskier looked up, startled.

The Witcher had caught him, fingers wrapped tight around Jaskier’s forearm, keeping him hovering over the cold stone floor by mere inches. His sword had clattered to the ground but Geralt didn’t seem concerned with that.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was higher than he liked, surprise dancing in his tone.

“Shouldn’t walk up on a meditating Witcher,” Geralt grumbled, averting his gaze. And then Jaskier was hauled to his feet by an impossibly strong, but oddly gentle, grip. The move brought them together, chests an inch apart. 

“I’m so sorry.” Jaskier stumbled over his apology, his skin itching from the way he flushed with embarrassment. “You didn’t respond and I was worried.”

A snort, and then, “I’m fine.”

“All right.” Jaskier gave Geralt a soft, slow smile, pulling the Witcher’s gaze down to him. “We should take a break. I got so wrapped up in my work that I realized we missed lunch. Let’s go down to the market, get some food.”

Geralt almost said, “No, finish it. I’m fine.” But he remembered Jaskier was human, mortal.  _ And he’s trying to be nice to you. Let him. Let him do something kind. He seems to enjoy it _ . With a sigh, Geralt released Jaskier’s arm and stepped back, stooping to retrieve his sword. “Fine. I should check on Roach anyways.”

Jaskier’s smile spread and that sunny effect hit Geralt square in the chest. “Yes, perfect!” He waved a hand at the easel. “Before we go….care to have a look?”

It warred in Geralt, the temptation to see the work; especially because he now knew how talented Jaskier was, given his portrayal of the vineyard employee. His eyes flitted to the easel and then back to Jaskier. “All right.”

That seemed to make the artist happy, given the way his blue eyes lit up, turning them somehow brighter and darker, almost a steely grey. They were very pretty eyes.

Geralt edged around the easel, waiting to look at the painting until the last minute. “Remember, it’s not finished. There’s no shading, no depth yet. It’s just a flat painting.” He wet his lips nervously. “No life to it yet.”

The first thing Geralt noticed was the difference in style between this and the portrait of Andreas. That one had been soft lines and lilting colors, an easy melding of blues and greens and yellows that reminded him of spring flowers. This was bolder. Harsher, somehow. The lines were heavier. They carried a weight, particularly in the shoulders and back, but not around the sword on his lap.

Even with all the black armor, nothing looked so weighed down as his posture.

Geralt frowned, trying to slot his warring emotions into place. Even without any shading, it was clearly him. The Witcher. The White Wolf.

_ The Butcher of Blaviken _

And yet he didn’t look brutish or hulking. He looked tired. Worn. Beaten down. And in that moment, Geralt felt seen like never before. Jaskier had already proven himself a keen observer of the human condition and strangely perceptive of even someone like Geralt. But his artist’s eye belied another truth.

Geralt was exhausted and in desperate need of care. Care like what Jaskier had been giving him since the moment they met.

“Oh, I...you don’t like it. I should start over again, anyways, really give you my best work -”

Geralt spun, crossed to Jaskier, and put a gloved finger on the other man’s lips. “You are too perceptive for your own good,” he growled, not sure if he wanted to leave in a huff or kiss the man. “You see a lot. And this is really good work.”

Jaskier’s eyes were wide but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Could barely breathe for the sake of wanting to. His heart pounded in his ears and he swallowed hard, his throat clicking with the effort of it. He was fiercely turned on and didn’t want Geralt to stop. “I don’t -”

Geralt pressed on his lips harder, cutting off Jaskier’s reply. “But maybe you see too much. Make others uncomfortable. You’ve had me twitching a few times in less than a day.” He cut his gaze down to Jaskier’s mouth and slowly removed his finger. “Don’t know the last time someone made  _ me _ nervous.”

Jaskier laughed, high and incredulous. “You nervous? You’re not the one standing before an armored man, all brooding and - and - oh, fuck it.” Before Geralt could even think about responding, Jaskier bounced up on his toes and kissed him. One hand slid under Geralt’s stubbled jaw, the other going to his shoulder.

Geralt froze under his touch, his lips. And then he was moving them back, so quickly Jaskier swore his feet left the ground for a moment before his back was pressed into the wall. Fire sparked in his gut as Geralt growled into his mouth and then his feet were truly off the ground, a firm hand under each thigh. He was lifted, trapped between the wall and the hard body that was hellbent on destroying his already thin self-control. Out of instinct, he wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist and gave back as good as he got. 

Geralt’s mouth was so warm, and as a clever tongue toyed with his, a moan was forced from deep in Jaskier’s throat. He wanted to say so many things in the moment, but chose to let Geralt wash them all away with the press of his body and the heat of his mouth. The hands on his thighs squeezed and Jaskier bucked into the touch, needing more.

“Figures you’d be a good kisser,” Geralt mumbled against his lips. “Bet you’re good at everything you put your mind to.”

“Hmmphf, Geralt.  _ Please _ .” He was already near begging. This is what he was reduced to! Taken apart by a wicked tongue and a set of hands so very close to where he truly wanted them.

“Yeah, yeah, little painter. You’ll get what you want.” Geralt pulled away but only to lean his temple against Jaskier’s. They both panted for breath, the air growing warm between them. 

Jaskier wiggled closer, urging Geralt to lean forward until Geralt’s hands had to grasp his backside. Jaskier’s grin became canny. “Does it involve you fucking me until I’m speechless?”

Geralt bit back a groan and tossed his head. “Upstairs?”

_ Thank the gods. _ “Yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be an epilogue but this ending kind of wrote itself! It’s also very fade to black (but still dirty).

It was an impressive show of strength and dexterity to walk up a set of stairs while holding someone by the ass and kissing them breathless. And yet, like so many things he did, Geralt made it seem effortless. Jaskier was practically swooning by the time they set foot - or, rather,  _ Geralt _ set foot - in Jaskier’s bedroom. 

And then he was all but thrown down on the bed, panting and gasping. “You brute,” he teased, watching Geralt flush at his words. “Do you mean to manhandle me more?”

Geralt was already pulling armor off at a rapid pace, his chestpiece nearly unbuckled but he paused to say, “Only if it means you’ll fuck me.”

Jaskier gaped. “I thought we said you’d fuck  _ me _ , dear Witcher.”

Geralt was on him in a moment, looming over him, bare hands carding through Jaskier’s hair and making him whine. “Changed my mind. We can always switch later.”

“Hmmm, yes, that sounds divine.” But he had to ask. He had to know. “Geralt, are you sure? You don’t  _ owe _ me anything.”

The Witcher shook his head quickly, white hair moving as he did. “I’m sure. I want to… I want  _ you _ .” His gaze turned canny, teasing. “Don’t you think you’ve toyed with me enough?” Jaskier gave a short yelp as Geralt fell forward onto the bed, his hands immediately going for Jaskier’s waist, thumbs rubbing circles along the wings of his hipbones.“For all you see, you never figured out that teasing a Witcher is a bad idea.”

The growl in Geralt’s voice was making him shiver and yet Jaskier pressed closer, wriggling with delight. “I did the very opposite, thank you.” His own voice was low, melodic, taking on a purr of its own as he raked his nails down the sides of Geralt’s chest through his thin chemise. “I know  _ exactly _ what I’m doing. And I want you riled up.”

Slightly chapped lips found the underside of Jaskier’s jaw, nipping and sucking until Jaskier bucked into him. His fingers bit in possessively, digging into hard muscle. “You live awfully dangerously for a pampered artist,” Geralt said, biting lightly at his neck.

“I - hmmmphf,  _ Geralt _ . My gods.” Jaskier couldn’t help himself from hooking a knee over Geralt’s leather-clad hip, his heel kicking into a very firm backside and making the other man grunt. “Off, get it off.”

One eyebrow - such an expressive one, at that - raised. “You too.”

He batted Geralt’s hands away from his clothes. “Yes, yes. I’m getting there but someone insisted on pinning me to the bed.”

“Mouthy.” Geralt leaned forward, nipped at the unblemished side of his neck and watched blood rush to the surface. “Bratty, too.” Then he stood and began removing the rest of his clothes, that amber gaze like a brand on Jaskier’s flesh.

Jaskier sputtered in faux indignation, but had a hard time schooling the smile off his face as he said, “Do you know what I do with lovers who call me names?”

Geralt paused, his fingers frozen on the buttons of his pants. There was a gleam in those amber eyes and it thrilled Jaskier down to his toes. “Tell me.”

Like a cat, Jaskier got to his knees and crawled up the bed, showing Geralt a firm ass that deserved to be grabbed and spanked. He bent at the hips, hand snaking under the mattress, and retrieved the long, satin loop of restraint that dangled below. Jaskier wound that black strip of fabric around his wrist as he said, “I tie them down and show them just how much they can take before they apologize for calling me things like  _ mouthy _ and  _ bratty.” _

Geralt immediately wanted it. As soon as Jaskier pulled that satin up for his visual inspection, he wanted to be stripped, tied down, and left at Jaskier’s mercy. He ached for it. Silently, he held out his wrist and Jaskier’s eyes widened. “You’re sure?” He asked, swallowing hard as blood rushed to his fattening cock.

Geralt nodded. “Yes.”

Jaskier blinked, and then he was back to slinking along the bed until he rested in the center of the mattress. He spread his knees, pulled gently on the restraint, and held out his hand. As Geralt reached for it, Jaskier wagged a finger at him. “Clothes off first, Witcher. That’s the first lesson. You obey, or you don’t get what you want.”

* * *

Geralt wanted to melt into the floor. His cock was hard and the seam of his trousers pressed painfully against it. He popped the buttons one by one, watching as Jaskier’s eyes tracked every little movement. When the placket was gaping but not pulled open, Geralt pulled his shirt off as he walked closer to Jaskier.

“Off, Witcher.” 

_ Oh _ , that was good. Geralt sucked in a breath at the steely edge in Jaskier’s voice, the way his eyes hardened, the way he pointed at the mattress. Daring him to disobey.

“If I don’t?” He rumbled, not hesitating to meet that fierce gaze with a fire in his own.  _ Tell me how you’ll punish me. Tell me how you’ll tie me down and drag pleasure out of me but won’t let me come. _

Against all expectation, Jaskier pulled  _ harder  _ on that strip of silk, the deep blue almost matching his eyes. And then he rubbed the heel of his palm against his clothed erection, hips thrusting into his own touch. “Then you don’t get what you want and I get  _ everything _ I want.” He leaned forward, pulling the restraint taut, letting it bear some of his weight. Seemingly satisfied, Jaskier reached his free hand under a pillow, pulled up another strip of dark blue satin, and repeated the motion.

It did interesting,  _ gorgeous _ things to his frame, taking his weight and suspending it partially so he was somewhat bound and held in place. A mockery of what he could do, and a promise of what he wanted to do to Geralt. “I can tie you up, play with you.” Geralt wanted to launch himself at Jaskier, make him promise to do that. Make him promise to keep Geralt riled and hard.

But Jaskier kept talking, his voice so commanding it burned wildfire in Geralt’s veins. “I’d bite your nipples until they bruise. Suck your cock but edge you just right, so when I tell you not to come, you don’t. You’ll be able to taste your orgasm but if you spill one drop before I say so, then I get to flip you over and smack your ass until you beg and you don’t even know what for.” Jaskier leaned even forward more and the muscles in his shoulders and arms coiled, snapping into place as the satin reached its end. “And when I finally put a finger inside you, I’ll bend down and whisper filthy things in your ear until I let you come from a finger and my tongue alone.”

Geralt’s pants hit the floor and he kicked them aside. Naked, hard, and breathing quickly, he got on his knees before the edge of the bed and waited.

He was rewarded with a fist in his hair and a growling voice in his ear. “Good boy.”

* * *

_ Hours later _

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Jaskier.”

“Hmmm?”

Geralt turned his head until he could see Jaskier sitting with pencil and paper propped up on a bent knee. “After all that, you’re worried about me?”

Jaskier took a moment to admire the faint outline of his handprint on Geralt’s ass and grinned. “A good dom always checks in, even after. The after is just as important, Geralt.”

Geralt hummed in thought and shifted slightly, feeling the pull of well-used muscles. “I’m gonna fall asleep.”

Jaskier waved a hand at him. “So fall asleep. I’ve art to see to.” He’d already begun sketching Geralt’s form as the Witcher lay sprawled in his bed, a sheet only just covering the middle of a very shapely - and very spankable - ass. He was definitely keeping this painting to himself.


End file.
